Eros and Psyche
by Atramentous Love
Summary: She's a slave to her past and memories, caught in the hands of a man who cares little for morality and even less for fickle things like love. He's a mess of emotions hidden behind cold, gray eyes and apathetic stares. One collision changes everything. B/R
1. Mirror, Mirror

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bleach or Greek Mythology, but I do own this plot. See below the story for my Author's Notes as usual.

**Eros and Psyche**  
_-Don't look at me-_

"Is that all ya have for me?" Gin's voice is lazy and the words languish in air.

She clenches her hands, bowing until her forehead touches the grimy floor in complete submission. The coins rest on the rickety table, gleaming dully with the setting of the sun through the cracked window. "I couldn't get more." She protests, lilac eyes closing with something close to desperation and then burning with the fires of hatred for the man in front of her.

He leans forward in his seat, eyes slitting like a serpent before the kill. Pale and spider-like fingers tip her chin up in a fake gesture of affection and kindness. The bruise blossoming on her skin underneath his rough grip is all that shows the scene is not what it should be. His voice is throaty and raspy and invasive next to her ear and she shudders, disgusted by the feel of having him so close to her.

"Do better next time then. I hate being disappointed." His tongue ghosts lightly over the rim of her ear before he chuckles, low and menacing. "You'll have to pay differently if you can't get enough."

The shadows rise along the walls and she bites back a whimper of protest. Resisting will only end in a longer time spent in his presence. That, she cannot afford. "I…I understand." She refuses to meet his gaze, focusing instead on his smooth forehead and the straw colored hair.

"Good. I love it when ya don't bother to struggle. Now look at me." His lips curve into a satisfied smile, slow and slick like oil on the surface of the ocean. It taints the atmosphere and burns her.

She refuses silently, keeping her gaze steady at the window behind him and the freedom it promises her.

"Rukia." He pronounces her name slowly, all tongue and teeth and flashing smiles. She hates it when he calls her like that, as if they're even remotely _close_. His hands drift down to her slender neck where they lock in a grip strong enough to kill. "Look at me."

She bites her lip, drawing a small bead of blood and nearly screams as he applies more pressure. She can't breathe and the world is spinning in whirlpools of black and Technicolor. She gives in, as she has always done, and focuses her eyes on his barely visible gaze. And as always, he manages to make her feel like dirt, like worthless material barely worth keeping, like a _slave_ just by looking at her. His grip loosens to the point where she can draw in tiny, struggling gasps of air.

"I've always loved your eyes, Rukia-chan. They're so _expressive_." Predatory. "It makes me wonder what other emotions they can express."

She prays to a God she's never known, to a deity somewhere in the clouds beyond her vision. She prays and swallows around the lump in her throat. She's sure he can feel her frantic heartbeat, so much like prey before a predator. She's sure he can feel her panic and her terror. She's sure and like all the times before in her life, there's no one to save her from him. Not this time. Not last time. Not ever.

He lets her go though, allowing her pathetic body to collapse on the floor in a mess of relief and adrenaline. "Go get Renji. I got some stuff ta talk ta him about. You ain't the only one who's behind on payin'."

She's gone before he can even bat an eyelash.

* * *

"What do you have for me?" His voice is calm and precise, never for one moment wasting a single syllable. Gray, nearly black, eyes stare impassively at the latest stock numbers, resting briefly on the bright green arrow symbolizing a rise in price for his company. Satisfaction, a long time ago, would've curved his lips into a smile. 

But a long time ago is not now. He turns away instead, focusing his intense and commanding gaze on the unruffled secretary. "We're up by nearly three dollars since yesterday. Your ingenious idea to combine hybrid vehicle engines with oxygen gas exhaust has propelled the corporation to the top of today's gainers." Nanao takes a moment to scratch out a number on her paper before shutting the giant records book closed again. "It's an honor to work for you, sir."

He waves off her praise with a curt dismissive gesture. "Child's play. Today's meeting regarding expansion into China's pollution factor and hazardous waste will be more important. The Board will finally reach a decision on whether to finance the complete environmental overhaul or not today. If the answer is affirmative, then they will expect us to take the lead in those efforts."

The clip of his shined shoes on polished tiles is strangely satisfying, almost as if reassuring him that he is going forward to a better future. The streets of Tokyo are busy as he steps out through the glass doors of Eco Corp. The clock tells him he is five minutes ahead of schedule and a quick glance to the street where his ride is supposed to be waiting tells him that he won't be going anywhere for those five minutes.

How droll. Wasting time.

* * *

"What the hell, Rukia?" Renji's voice is abrasive and friendly and a welcome relief to her ears after Gin's latest session. His hands are large and the remnant of some innocent person's wallet is poking awkwardly out of his baggy cargo pants.

She doesn't respond at first, tugging harder on his hand as she weaves through the throng of busy people. "It's Gin. He says you're behind on payments and you know what that means. Hurry up, dammit. We can't be late." Her voice is a steady crescendo to anxiety and her eyes are wide open and visibly scared, almost panicked.

"He touched you, didn't he? That's why you're freaking out all over the place. Rukia, Rukia." Angry. possessive. "Rukia, answer me!"

She doesn't look at him when she answers in a quiet affirmative, but she can feel his hand tighten almost painfully around hers. She understands his concern. Out of all of them, out of all of Gin's little thieves, she's the only female. She still doesn't understand why he even bothers with her for she is far from being pretty. Malnutrition and bruises from Gin's violent fits decorate her slight frame. From what Renji tells her, she was dropped off by some woman too cowardly to show her own face.

But that is neither here nor there and her only priority is to get Renji there in time so he won't be beaten, so he won't feel the touch of the whip against his already lacerated skin. It's the best she can do for him as a childhood friend. It's the only thing she can do for him.

It's not until she hears Renji's shout of warnings that she realizes she's slammed headlong into someone.

* * *

There's a distinctly painful throb to his chest that wasn't there before.

He blinks slowly, deliberately, and narrows his eyes as he catches the source of the disturbance and the impromptu collision. Another street member, someone too dependent to get out there and work hard for themselves. Further back, he sees a vividly red-haired teen gesture frantically.

"Get off me." He's irritated at the teen still glued to his body, surprised at the small frame, and only slightly apologetic as he realizes that his assaulter is a petite female. He shoves her off of him and watches with confusion as she backs away murmuring soft apologies.

"I'm sorry." Her head is bent, but he can see the lackluster gleam to her hair and the clothing as it hangs too loosely off of her frame. "I wasn't watching where I was going." Her voice is nice, he thinks almost unconsciously. It reminds him of lilies floating in a pond, drifting but strong in their destination.

When she lifts her head to make a final apology, he is struck to the quick.

Violet eyes.

Eyes the color of deep lavender.

For a minute, Byakuya forgets the world.

* * *

She's embarrassed and flustered and all too aware that the handsome stranger is staring at her with poorly concealed disgust. She apologizes for running into him, for not seeing the objects in front of her, for everything that she can possibly apologize about. The words run headlong into each other, until she's all too aware that he probably can't hear her and that Gin is still waiting in his lair for Renji.

When they lock eyes, she gets none of the disgust or the fear she feels around the serpentine man whose hold seems eternally far-reaching. His eyes are a cold and unforgiving slate gray, opaque so as to nearly appear obsidian black. Merciless, she thinks. But there is something human about his irises, something that _speaks _to her.

And then Renji is behind her, panting and damn near yelling in her ear. He picks her up ungracefully and she feels only the wind on her flushed face as they pass the stranger by.

"What the hell were you thinking? You _moron_." He sounds harried and harassed and rushed.

She shakes off the lethargic feeling around her and promptly pinches his ear as revenge. "Shut up. I ran into the man. I apologized. And now Gin is going to kick your ass and I'm not going to get dinner for the third time this week. Can't you run any faster?" She's screaming, she knows, but it's to cover up her memories of that split-second encounter and to mask her fear of going back to the den.

"Ouch! You bitch, that actually hurts!"

"Quit whining, you girly boy!"

But the third voice stops them cold and strips her of all bravado.

"Heya, Rukia-chan. Renji. Ya guys are late."

Slits for eyes, a strangling feeling. She breathes and suffocates on the air.

"Ichimaru."

_-Don't…don't look at me. Please-_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**This was originally supposed to be named as Stealing Love, but I changed my mind after several weeks of contemplation. As you can tell, this is Alternate Universe, and Rukia is not quite as scrappy as she should probably be. But keep in mind her reaction to Gin's presence during the first Arc of Bleach and I think you'll understand why. Consider this a prologue for all the things to come. I hope you guys enjoyed reading this first chapter as much I enjoyed writing it. Reviews always make me happy!


	2. By Candlelight

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the myth or Bleach. Any points of clarification can be found below the chapter in my Author's Notes.

**Warning: **The first scene contains somewhat explicit torture. As in flogging and severe whipping as well as physical abuse. I would not recommend reading the first section if you are weak of heart.

**Important Note: **To all my Anonymous readers, I didn't realize until very recently that anonymous reviews were disabled. I didn't mean to snub you guys in any way and I apologize if you were rudely rejected when attempting to leave some feedback.

**Eros and Psyche**  
_-By the candlelight-_

She closes her eyes and pretends the world away.

There's the sickening snap of rope on skin and she presses her lids all the more tightly shut. Her hands scrabble desperately to block the sound from her ears even as she curls into herself. Her imagination is terrible and flashes of welts and bleeding cuts dot her mind's canvas. She shakes them away and denies everything up until the last moment when Gin's spider-like fingers run across her cheek.

"What's the matter?" He coos and the words slide through the gaps between her fingers so effortlessly. "Is little Rukia not feeling well?"

"You get the fuck away from her, Ichimaru." Renji's voice is hoarse and ragged from the flogging and his labored breathing echoes within the room. "Don't touch her like that."

"You're not in a position to make any demands, now are ya, Abarai?" Gin's voice is lazy and threatening at the same time, his lips curving up into a sardonic expression at Renji's pain. ""Sides, last I checked, you still had twenty welts owed to me." His dirty nails trace over her cheek deceptively soft, before dragging jagged lines. She refuses to scream though; it'll only make him feel better about himself.

"I'll…I'll pay his debts, Gin." She whispers into the hallowed darkness of the room and turns her sight away from the window. There's no point in dreaming of a freedom when there's no chance of ever being freed. "Twenty, right?" She asks, and she knows that the number should be closer to two, but she's not in control here. She's never in control. An hour, she thinks forlornly, an hour of listening to Renji's harsh breathing and muted cries of pain, an hour of listening to the rope make contact with skin. An hour of sitting idly by, unable to do anything.

"She doesn't mean it, Gin. She doesn't know what she's saying," Renji pleads in the background, desperation lacing his words. She hopes she'll never hear him pleading and begging for her sake anymore. She doesn't deserve his kindness.

Ichimaru's expression is falsely contemplative, a finger tapping on her forehead in tune with her heartbeat. "But she offered, an' y'know…it ain't nice ta refuse a lady anythin'." He gloats and yanks her up to a standing position. She lurches as he drags her over to Renji and looks down, unable to confront her childhood friend's bewildered expression.

"_Why?" _His expression says to her and she musters up enough energy to smile brokenly.

"_Because it's the only thing I can do for you. Don't look back, Renji." _She takes off her shirt with practiced movements, leaving her scarred back open to the chilling air. Maybe, once upon a time ago, her skin was soft and smooth to the touch, but now…it is rough with welts and half-healed cuts. There are burns from candle wax on her shoulder blades and bruises in the shape of fingerprints on her hip from where Gin grabs her in his fits of fury. She's thankful that he hasn't yet managed to actually _do_ anything to her, but the feel of his fingers on her bared back is chilling and somewhere in the room, Renji is shaking his head in despair.

She wants to turn around and tell the red-haired idiot to get out, to leave, so that she can show up later and pretend that everything went just fine. She wants to turn around and yell at him to look _anywhere_ but at_ her_ until she's blue in the face. But Gin's insistent grip on her shoulder prevents her from doing anything. "Ya got a good friend 'ere, Renji. Better thank 'er later." He mocks and steps back, the rope sliding on the cement floor with ominous intent. She stiffens, bracing herself as best as she can for the blow that will inevitably come.

She isn't prepared for the brutality of the rope skinning her back open. There's a trail of burning fire down her back and tears form in her eyes. She grits her teeth and bites her lip until blood dribbles down her chin in a weak trail. Nineteen left, she thinks painfully, and screams as the rope is withdrawn and then brought back down on her slender frame for a second time. Renji's words of protest are drowned by her anguished cries as the rope draws blood again and again, her mind counting down the numbers slowly. Her knees shake and she staggers a moment. Gin rights her soon enough, slamming her head against the wall with enough force to nearly have her black out.

"Three left, Rukia-chan!" He says, a smile in his voice, and she refuses to shudder for him—he doesn't deserve that from her.

The blood is hot and heavy as it follows the curve of her spine, dripping sluggishly onto the cold floor and she hisses, nails digging into callused palms. She ignores the open-mouthed shock written on Renji's face and the way Gin's smile stretches from ear to ear. She ignores the goosebumps rising on her exposed torso and the hairs rising on the back of her neck. White everything out, she knows, she has to white everything out if she wants to remain quiet for the last three brutal strikes. It's always the most painful towards the end.

One. She opens her mouth in a soundless scream, feeling the skin peel off until there's only raw and bleeding flesh left behind. Her hands swing limply by her side and she curses in her mind, knowing her silence will only make the last two blows all the more harsh.

Two. Her vocal chords strain against her throat, tender vein lines of blue and green standing out in sharp relief against planes of bone. And still no sound from her mouth. "What's the matter, Rukia-chan? Cat got your tongue?" He chuckles even though she knows he's angry at her for withholding her pained shrieks. Renji's eyes are closed, she can tell from the corner of her eyes, and thanks a nonexistent deity for forcing his eyes shut. She doesn't want him feeling guilty over this later on, when he bandages the raw welts and deep rope burns on her skin.

Three. The last one brings her to her knees, kneecaps colliding harshly with the unforgiving floor. That will leave bruises later on, but she's already moving to put on her shirt soundlessly, slipping the material over her head. The fabric instantly turns deep crimson and when she looks over her shoulder at the motionless rope, she's sickened to see her own blood sprayed over the makeshift whip. She doesn't look closer though, knowing that she'll only see tiny pieces of her skin clinging onto the threads of the rope.

"Aw, that wasn't any fun." Gin complains, but allows her to lean on Renji's shoulder and limp out of the dreaded room. "Don't forget! You ain't getting' dinner t'night, the both of ya!"

His mocking laughter follows them long after the door closes shut with a note of finality.

* * *

"I have never seen such a horrific display of pollution before," Yamamoto declares with a wrinkled brow. The pictures playing on the slideshow flash before the Board's eyes, highlighting tons upon tons of gas exhaust and plumes of smoke belched out of outdated factories. "My God! China's a mess!" He adds as a picture of a cloudy Beijing flashes before the room's occupants. Clouded with smoke and dust particles, there is no one in the room naïve enough to think the smoke is something natural. 

"Precisely why Eco Corp would like to take over an immense project within China. We would like to request the Board's permission to completely renovate the environment, reducing pollution by as much as forty percent within the next twenty years. Valuable organisms are withering away in the face of such wasteful and careless actions." On another person, the words would've sounded passionate and earnest. But on Byakuya, the words sound flat and robotic, eloquent only in the way a stark black and white photo is eloquent.

He adjusts his tie carefully and fixes a penetrating look at the Head of the Board. "Sir, I assure you the plan will work within the time allotted." Images of violet eyes push past his vision of a cleaner globe, past stock market figures and numbers, and past intricate papers detailing environmentally friendly machines to rest at the front of his mind. His mouth dips into a disapproving frown at his own inability to concentrate and he shoves the image of a too-thin and poor girl out of his mind. He does not need to feel pity at such a time as this. She means absolutely nothing to him.

"It will require much effort upon your part, Mr. Kuchiki. You are young and I am hesitant to hand such responsibility to you. Surely you have a family? This project will drain any time that you have." Yamamoto's voice is deep and wise, but Byakuya is an aspiring man and he is impatient with the warnings.

"I have no wife and do not plan to acquire one in the near future. Please, Mr. Yamamoto, consider the environment and base your decision off of the country's well being rather than my own. I am prepared to take full responsibility for whatever may come of this project." Detached, logical. His tone is one that cannot brook any argument.

Yamamoto sighs, the very breath seemingly rattling his old frame. It is a startling contrast between the two of them, for Byakuya is in the prime of his life with a handsome face and a strong and toned body. The Board members notice the young CEO's maturity and whisper amongst themselves that he will be the one to revolutionize the world. They see him as an inspiration and as a self-sacrificing individual. "We will notify you by fax of our final decision, Mr. Kuchiki. Thank you for your time."

But little does the aged corporate leader know; the decision has already been made.

* * *

Shuuhei's expression is torn between pity and being shell-shocked. "What the _hell_ happened?" He curses loudly, not so much a question as a bewildered demand for answers. She doesn't blame him for it; it's been a long time since she has shown up with so much blood pooling out of her thin body. He puts down his meager dinner, keen eyes noticing the way she deliberately tries to look at anywhere but the half-filled plate. 

"She took the rope for me. Twenty times." Renji's voice is low and filled with self-loathing and guilt, just as she feared. He sits down with a long-suffering sigh and winces as the movement agitates his own share of injuries. "Gin was especially brutal to her today. He started taking off skin by the fifth blow and she was bleeding before he even reached ten." He buries his head in his hands and doesn't look to meet her eyes.

"Stop it." She snaps and hisses as Shuuhei begins to apply some stolen ointment or other on her back. His hands are rough but mindful as he spreads the balm over her rope burns and her two-day old candle wax burns. He wraps the bandages on her back, undoing them again as they are instantly soaked through. The process repeats itself until Shuuhei's satisfied enough that the bandages will remain clean for a decent period of time. "I did it for you so you better wipe that wimpy look off of your face. You know how much I hate it when people pity me."

"How could I possibly just brush off the fact that you fucking nearly got yourself _killed_ over me? Rukia, there was no reason for you to do that!" Renji shouts, fists clenching as he final musters up the courage to look her in the face. It's not supposed to be like this. He's supposed to be the one protecting her, not the other way around. He doesn't want her to be his scapegoat, but she's never listened to him and she never will.

"So it's not alright for me to protect a friend? So it's not alright for me to want to save someone I care about from more pain? So it's fine if you sweep by and act the role of the hero, but it's not alright if I want to be the heroine? Well screw you Renji. I was just trying to help." She screams and shoves Shuuhei away from her as she stands up, face red with anger. There's a moment that passes where it looks like she's about to say more, but a strange look crosses her face and turns on her heel, furiously barreling her way out of the room.

"Oy, Rukia? Where are you going? Don't run around with your back like that!" He shouts, but she's already gone, the cool wind filtering through the door his only reply.

"You're a real dumbass, you know that Renji?" Shuuhei sighs and rests an elbow against the floor as he picks at the remains of his dinner.

"I know. Believe me, I know." He replies and rests his head against the wall in defeat.

* * *

She's running and her lungs are on fire, but she can't stop. Her bare feet pound on the dirt and gravel, muffled as the rocks scratch her skin and the sand makes pocket marks. She feels the distinct urge to cry, but swallows around the lump in her throat to take a deep gulp of fresh air. Pity. Sympathy. She hates these emotions as much as she hates her own inability to stand up to Gin. Away from his serpentine eyes, she can muster up the anger and the hatred and physically assault something. But when she's in front of him and his eyes are raking over her body, she can only stand and shiver. He sucks the life out of her. 

The streetlamps flicker in her vision blurrily and she turns around the street corner, running and running. She doesn't know where she's going, but she just needs to _get away_ for now. It's a moonless night and she raises a hand to scrub furiously at her eyes, killing whatever tears dare to fall. She's better than this. She knows she is. But it's like everything's building up like a typhoon inside and it's ripping her to pieces. She's running and it isn't until she skids to a sharp stop outside of a building that she realizes it's the same spot where she met that stranger earlier on.

She wonders if he'll be here like her, but brushes away the absurd notion. He probably has a place to go home to, a family, and a nice living style. He's probably well enough on money and successful. She slides down the wall of the building to the floor, breathing heavily and feeling the lack of air irritate her lungs. He's probably too good for the likes of her to even see again.

"You…again." She hears, and whips her head up in disbelief…maybe even hope.

It's almost too surreal.

* * *

He has some papers to grab back in the office, which explains his presence here in front of his corporation's building. But the tiny and ragged figure sitting in front of him neither works in the building nor looks like she even belongs in the higher end of the city. Her hair is still as dirty as ever and she's gasping for breath, stirring a foreign feeling behind his ribcage. 

He walks towards her, he's not sure why, and when he whispers his words, her head snaps up as if she's terrified of someone hunting her. Her glimmering violet pools are even brighter by the streetlamps and he sees the glistening of something else—tears? He shakes his head and berates himself for even caring about whether the tramp is crying or not. He wants to walk past her and enter the building, but he stops right in front of her instead, kneeling so that he's face-to-face with her. A part of him wants to demand what he's doing, but he's going on instinct alone and he's not scared yet of where this is going.

"I'm sorry," She blurts out and immediately feels like an idiot and a fool.

His smooth face is expressionless as he observes her silently, but even she can feel the question in his mind. "What are you sorry for?" He asks finally, locking gazes with her once more.

She laughs suddenly, aware of the difference between them. He is in a freshly pressed Armani suit with a Gucci watch strapped to his wrist and she is in little more than a large nightgown, dirtied with dust and smeared in some spots with mud. She tries to push herself off the wall and stand up, but her legs shake and she collapses back on the floor again. "For being here, for troubling, for bumping into you earlier." She rattles off a list, watching as his blank face takes on a more puzzled look. God, she doesn't even think she's sane anymore. The lights blink out one by one and then it's all black.

He's concerned, though he shouldn't be. Her eyes are glazed and she looks feverish in the poor lighting. Her shaking legs and the wince that comes with her collapse don't escape his attention either. Carefully slipping off his jacket, he folds it, ready to slip it around her thin shoulders before he realizes she's already unconscious. Careful fingers tip up her chin before he moves forward to take her into his arms. It would be wrong to leave her here in the chilly night with a fever, he thinks, unwilling to believe that there could possibly be a different reason behind his actions. But as Byakuya places a hand on her back (disturbed as he can feel the sharp outline of her spine stretching taut against skin) a sinking feeling fills him deep inside.

When he pulls away his fingers, he forgets how to breathe.

Her blood is all over his hand.

_-Mend her broken spirit-_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**Yet another chapter done, and it's pretty long. It's actually over 3,000 words long. Yes! I've come a long way from writing just 1,000 word long chapters and I'm really proud of that. I'm sorry for the grotesque torture scene, but I wanted to drive the point in that she's really suffering. This was written in response to a certain reader's demands for an update. The next chapter will be up in about two weeks or so, uh, maybe longer actually. Despite the darkness of this in the beginning, I assure you it will get better as the story progresses. Please drop a comment; it really does inspire me to write more! 

**Summary and Preview of Chapter Three:**

He has seen many a disgusting sight in his life. He has seen twisted and horrific scenes before, but as she slips off her shirt for the doctor in his bedroom, even he can barely contain the impulse to look away in horror. Her back is mottled with scars, some new and some old, and ripped open with rope burns. "Who did this to you?" He asks, unable to stop the question from coming out into the open. He knows she won't want to answer and will probably lie anyways, but he wants to know—needs to know.

She doesn't turn around from her position on the bed and gives a bitter laugh that strikes a chord somewhere in his heart. "Why would you care?" She asks as the doctor runs a trembling hand down her mutilated flesh, eyes unable to do anything but stare.

He wants to say that he should care, that of course he would care. But there really isn't reason for him to care and so he stays quiet. He knows that there are some things you have to earn the right to hear, and he knows that he will most likely never earn the right to demand that answer from her.

Still, he can't help the slow burning of anger inside of him at her defeated appearance.

* * *

_Summary:_ In which Byakuya feels righteous anger for someone other than himself and Rukia disregards her place in the world. And somewhere between everything, Life decides to make life even more unfair. 


	3. Carved

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bleach. Please refer to the end of this chapter for my Author's Note as well as a sneak peek at what's to come.

**Important Note: **When I first wrote this chapter, the file was corrupted and I lost all 4500+ words. I very nearly gave up on this story, but I couldn't let you guys down. Not after the fourteen reviews I received for the second chapter. Thank you for giving me the patience to rewrite _everything_.

**Eros and Psyche**_  
-All the king's men-_

His steps are quick as he heads in the direction of his house. Had anyone been there to see him, they would've thought they were hallucinating. After all, Kuchiki Byakuya was well known for always being on top of everything and never rushing. Had anyone been there to see him, they would've gawked at the very sight of him hurriedly walking through the street with a girl in his arms. But there is no one at this late of an hour to see him or the casual stain of blood dripping between his fingers with every step he takes. There is no one to see the girl's pale and clammy features or the businessman's pinched and harried look.

She is bleeding far too much, he thinks to himself quietly. He knows from textbook readings in college and high school that a human body has more than enough blood to overwhelm a small pond. He knows this, but knowing is very different from seeing. And as he registers his soaked suit and the bloodless features of her face, he feels disturbed, as nothing has made him for a very long time. He unconsciously tightens his hold on her and tries to ignore the way she opens her mouth in something vaguely resembling a soundless scream or a whimper of protest. And yet still, she bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

He exhales in relief as the lights of his manor draw nearer and nearer, unwilling to hold her cold, nearly lifeless body in his hands. He doesn't bother with niceties or an explanation as the astonished face of Ishida greets him. "Don't ask questions," he warns and shifts her in his hold—carefully and almost tenderly.

"Of course not. Wel—" The words stop suddenly as Ishida's face twists upon realizing immediately the inappropriateness of such a greeting when a girl is obviously in pain. His mouth closes, the normally austere and sharp butler silent for a moment. The moment stretches from seconds into minutes and he's aware of how ridiculous they must look right now. His jaw works soundlessly and his next words come out stuttered and shell-shocked. "Shall I take her?" He steps forward, his arms ready to relieve his master's burden, but a single look into those piercing and lucid gray eyes stops him cold. Useless, his arms swing by his side, and there's a moment of _something_ between the two of them, as if this is a play where he has forgotten his next lines. It certainly feels awkward enough to warrant that type of situation.

"Call Unohana, and if she can't afford to come here right now, tell her to send over Hanataro. Within the next hour, I want to see one of them at this door. No excuses." Byakuya's voice is stern and powerful—commanding without being overbearing. It reminds Ishida of exactly what the man is, a noble who actually fits his title. He turns, ready to do as instructed, but stops at the tired look on the youthful face in front of him.

"Sir, are you sure? I can carry her while you get a change of clothes and rest." The offer is a logical one, and the CEO knows it, but something inside him refuses to let the street tramp go. He's too tired to fight with his emotions and shakes his head in a negative response. This of course, along with the fact that he has called for two of the best doctors in the city to attend to the girl, does not escape the astute butler's attention. As he prepares to leave and dutifully make the call, he catches a glimpse of uncharacteristic kindness glimmering in a pair of normally shuttered eyes.

Ishida tells himself it's just a trick of the light, because really, it's too late to see right. After all, it isn't as if Kuchiki Byakuya, of all people, could possibly develop feelings for someone from the streets. He scoffs at his thoughts and waves the notion away, for it is simply too ludicrous to consider any longer. Such a thing as _love_ is simply unheard of for his master.

Impossible.

* * *

The maid hands her over to him, eyes carefully averted. He nods his thanks and proceeds to lay her gently on his bed. Perhaps later, when he is not so exhausted or distracted, he will wonder how he could've possibly missed the maid's pale face. Perhaps later, he will wonder how he could have dismissed her one word of warning. But later is not now, and he waves her away so that there is no one in his bedroom aside from the still unconscious girl and him. He pulls up a chair to sit by her side, eyes noticing her unnatural thinness and the way her skin glows with fever. The maid's careful washing has only further illuminated her paleness and the blue tint to her skin from blood loss.

He really shouldn't be here right now. He should still be working on some business proposals and finishing up the patent forms for his company's latest invention. He should be sleeping. He should be doing something useful besides watching a street rat as if he actually cares. Because he doesn't. Kuchiki Byakuya has never, and will never, hold affection for any person. He tells himself that he's only worried because if she dares to _die_ on him in his _house_, than it will bode ill for his reputation. Before he can dwell any longer of the cold-bloodedness of that singular statement though, the door creaks open to reveal Hanataro.

The doctor shuffles forward into the barely lit room, characteristically meek as he latches onto the briefcase with something like a death grip. But Byakuya does not complain, because the doctor is undisputedly good at what he does. "You sent for me?" Hanataro asks, striding forward to inspect the listless form swallowed up by the large bed. Already, his small hands are taking out bandages, gauze, and disinfectants, setting them gently on the nightstand.

"Yes. I ran into her tonight and she promptly passed out. When I went to pick her up, I noticed she was bleeding heavily from the back. I have already had a maid wash her to discourage infection. The bleeding has stopped for now." He stops, unwilling to divulge the fact that just before she'd blacked out, she had been apologizing. He is sure that the apologies must have been a product of her delirious state of mind, for he remembers her apologizing for even existing. But Hanataro does not need to know such frivolous details and Byakuya is not in the mood to offer any more information.

The doctor nods, quietly accepting, before leaning closer to inspect the female's head. When he pulls back, his mouth is set into an unsettled frown. "She appears to have sustained blunt trauma and force to her head. It's a mild concussion, so there needn't be any worries about long-term damage. Still, I find it curious…" He trails off, but stops the dangerous thought before it comes. He's just jumping to conclusions, he tells himself. She could have easily just been knocked heavily into a wall by accident. The frown deepens though, and he places his finger on the zipper of her nightgown, preparing to treat the wounds on her back. He is stopped by a shaking hand lifting to push him weakly back. For a moment, as he stumbles backwards, more from shock rather than her attempt to put some distance between them, he fancies himself to be Victor Frankenstein. As she rises from her position on the bed, limbs trembling with effort but still graceful, he thinks he is witnessing the rise of an immortal. Surely, this scene could've easily been one from Mary Shelley's haunted classic. But logic wins and he shakes his head disconcertingly to rid the idea from his mind.

"You are here to…help me, right?" She asks, her voice hoarse and slightly throaty. Hanataro does not consider it to be an unpleasant sound. In fact, he rather thinks it suits her dark violet gaze and moon-white skin.

"Yes, he is. But he will not be able to do that if you do not allow him access to your back." Byakuya answers from his position on the chair. The businessman is certainly not so crude as to demand for her to take off her shirt. Indeed, it is virtually impossible to consider such a dignified and coolly composed man to ever be rude or brutish. It is an image that he has cultivated and is all too willing to maintain. Perhaps if he had paid closer attention to her hesitance or the uncertainty flickering within her gaze, he would've retracted the offer. At the very least, he would've expected something to shock him. But for all his intelligence and careful planning, the CEO is not omniscient and thus, could not have possibly prepared himself for what came next.

He has seen many a disgusting sight in his life. He has seen twisted and horrific scenes before, but as she slips off her shirt for the doctor in his bedroom, even he can barely contain the impulse to look away in horror. Her back is mottled with scars, some new and some old, and ripped open with rope burns. "Who did this to you?" He asks, unable to stop the question from coming out into the open. He knows she won't want to answer and will probably lie anyways, but he wants to know—needs to know.

She doesn't turn around from her position on the bed and gives a bitter laugh that strikes a chord somewhere in his heart. "Why would you care?" She asks as the doctor runs a trembling hand down her mutilated flesh, eyes unable to do anything but stare.

He wants to say that he should care, that of course he would care. But there really isn't reason for him to care and so he stays quiet. He knows that there are some things you have to earn the right to hear, and he knows that he will most likely never earn the right to demand that answer from her.

Still, he can't help the slow burning of anger inside of him at her defeated appearance.

* * *

She knows, without turning to see them, what their expressions must be. She has had those very same expressions on her face, after all. She imagines that the doctor's face must be frozen in astonishment, quickly to turn into medical worry for her bruised and marred skin. She thinks that the kind stranger must, for all his impassiveness, have horror and disgust warping his handsome features. She knows this just as certainly as she knows where their eyes will be drawn to first on the canvas of scars that is her back. There is a sharp and jagged gash, long healed, but leaving behind a reminder on her skin of words she should not have said and the punishment that followed. It stretches from her right shoulder to her left hip in a snaking design that resembles a stitching pattern one may see resting on an elderly lady's lap. Certainly, it looks as if someone had taken a needle and thread and proceeded to mistake her flesh for fabric.

She knows that having stared their fill at that strange design marking her; they will be drawn to the words imprinted on the small of her back. She remembers the memory behind that particular injury as clearly as if the incident had occurred mere seconds ago.

_"Sa, Rukia-chan," Gin's words were lazy as he leaned back in the rickety chair. She hadn't moved from her spot, happily playing with scraps of discarded cloth. But who can blame her? She had been, at the time of the incident, only six. Too young to realize the bastard that Gin was inside, too young to distinguish between good and evil. Ironically, it was that incident which taught her everything she'd need to know about the serpentine man. "Who owns ya?" She should've known better than to answer what she did, but she was six. She didn't know. She couldn't have known._

"_Mama. I belong to mama." She'd replied, giggling as a scrap of cloth rolled away from her pudgy hands. _

_Gin's expression had immediately turned dark and foreboding as he snatched the burning candle from his desk. She hadn't backed away. He'd torn the back of her shirt in pure anger and let the wax drop onto her exposed back in lines. She'd screamed, but of course, no one could have heard her. It wasn't until he'd finally finished with his creation that he bothered to speak. "You belong to me. And I will make the memory burn." _

_And burn, it had. She remembers the flames outlining her new scar, setting a writhing pain through her body. She remembers everything, and wishes she'd remember nothing at all. _

"Slave," her words are soft and musical, belying the darkness of her thoughts. The sound startles both of the men from their thoughts, one horrified, and the other brimming with anger. "It was a punishment," she explains, more of a question than a real explanation, and it leaves the occupants of the room silent once again.

Hanataro takes a shaky breath and finishes patching up her wounds, like a too-loved doll torn on the side. "You have a mild concussion and a light fever. The bandages will need to be changed every six to eight hours and I don't want to see you out of bed for at least a week." He pauses, perhaps wishing to offer some semblance of comfort, but leaves the room without saying anything else. The door closes behind him with a note of finality, drowning the remaining two occupants in a flickering darkness.

"I won't be bothering you for much longer," she says confidently, the nightgown settling itself over her form once again. She turns to face him, twin violet eyes fixing themselves firmly on his visage. "I know I have already burdened you beyond belief and I have no wish to take advantage of your kindness." He starts from his resting position on the chair, surprised at her willingness to even call him 'kind.' But his sharp mind processes her words with displeasure and a slight frown mars his normally impassive face.

"You will do no such thing. Returning to whatever place you came from isn't a viable option. It obviously isn't very safe if you came stumbling to me in such a late hour, only to collapse within minutes." He pauses, carefully weighing his options and the consequences of each possible statement. "You aren't imposing on me." He offers, not unkindly, and watches as she shakes her head passionately.

"From where I come from, it isn't a question of when you die or if you get shoved into the dirt." A wry smile fleets across her pale face, as if remembering an incident that was both fond and frustrating. "It's a matter of how you die and how you take your blows going into the ground. I have friends, companions who suffer with me. To rest here in such luxury for a week would be to abandon them. I can't do that. I could never do that." She lapses into a thoughtful quiet, and he feels his respect for her rise.

"Rukia." She finally says, holding a thin and malnourished hand in front of him, a glimmer of a smile curving her lips. "I completely forgot that I never introduced myself, a courtesy I should've extended to my rescuer." Her words are mildly teasing and the smile widens marginally. He does not think that the smile looks at all out of place on her lips. He rather thinks she looks…entrancing, but snaps himself out of such thoughts soon enough to give her the same courtesy.

He nods in understanding and extends his own hand to grip hers in a semblance of a handshake. "Kuchiki Byakuya." He doesn't reflect on the fact that he's holding a street girl's hand so carelessly, doesn't stop to analyze the reasons and the how and the _why_. He just _does_, letting his emotions dictate his motions rather than his mind. It's a refreshing change, like glimpsing the sky rather than staring at the ground. "I don't agree with your choice, but I have no sway over your opinions. If something happens, just show up at the same place as today and I'll make sure you will be well-cared for."

But he has not intention of doing what he has just said. As soon as he can hear her soft, even breathing indicating a light (if not dreamless) sleep, he leaves the room to summon a certain Kurosaki Ichigo. The orange-haired young adult comes running at his call, stopping directly in front of his calculating face. "There is a girl in that room, by the name of Rukia. Sometime around five or six in the morning, she will no doubt wake up and intend to leave the house without disturbing a single person. Tell everyone that they are to ignore her presence, but you are to follow her. Take care to not be noticed by her, but report back as soon as you can about her final destination. Unfortunately, this also means that you cannot intervene in any situation involving her. If she is harmed, wait for the perpetrator to leave before taking her back here. If the situation calls for it, use my name. If someone dares to contradict your word, show them this." He carefully pulls off his ring, the one emblazoned with the Kuchiki crest, and drops it in the stunned youth's hands. "Do not lose this. I will be going to rest."

Ichigo bows, amber eyes flickering to the door behind the CEO and then to a pair of gray eyes in confusion. "But sir, isn't that your room?" He receives a blank stare, as if to say that the fact is an obvious one and the question hardly one worth answering. "I'll have a maid prepare one of the spare bedrooms for you, sir." He finally settles on saying, shifting uncomfortably in such a commanding and powerful presence. It worries at his nerves and bothers him, the whole situation, but he keeps his mouth wisely shut and leaves.

It is four in the morning when Byakuya finally lets his eyes close. When he rises at seven, she is gone—and with her, Ichigo.

* * *

She knows she must absolutely ridiculous like this, running down the streets with a flimsy silk nightgown barely hanging on her shoulders. She winces as a sharp piece of rock digs into the sole of her foot, but keeps on running, keeps on hoping that Gin will not have noticed. Somewhere inside, she knows that Gin will know and that he will be there to 'welcome' her as she finally returns. But a part of her doesn't care, too focused on breathing in tandem with the pounding of her feet on pavement. It's too early for anyone to be out and about, too early for someone to notice and question her actions. She doesn't know that just one block behind her; a shadow follows, moving silently and stealthily, orange hair catching the first of the sun's rays.

When she finally pauses for breath outside of her dreaded 'home,' there is only one voice to greet her—serpentine and hollow all at once. She represses a moan and tries to stop the desperate pounding of her heart against her ribcage. It's only Gin, only Gin, she tells herself, and wonders why she allows herself to be controlled by such nightmares. When she locks gazes with his half-closed eyes, she imagines her face must be smooth and unreadable. But the mirage is quickly shattered as his first words greet her exposed ear.

"Heya, Rukia-chan." He drags out her name, as if savoring the syllables as they drip like potent poison from his tongue. "Or should I call ya Cinderella? Ya didn't come back last night an' now the magic's all gone." He pauses, leaning forward to inspect her fear-paralyzed form. She has a creeping feeling that he isn't pleased and is just drawing out her terror and torment. "Ya weren't wearin' somethin' that pretty last time. Didn't ya go out last night with some rag-tag shirt on ya? Cinderella must have found some rich boy to bed with, eh? Explains that silk thing ya got on ya, doll. At least ya ain't wearing those glass shoes." He beckons for her to follow him into his office and she does as he commands, helpless against his whims.

She's ashamed to admit her relief as he asks her to take off the silk nightgown and don the ripped T-shirt he's given her instead. It's a strangely merciful thing, for he most certainly could've forced her into anything. She supposes he is happy about how much he can buy with that one article of sleepwear. Silk, after all, is never cheap. As the T-shirt settles against her skin, she turns to leave his foreboding office, and smiles at her luck. She should've known better. She really should've. But she is concussed and sleepy, so it does not occur to her that Gin isn't down yet until she goes soaring through the air. For an insanely delusional moment, she thinks it's a beautiful feeling to be able to fly.

But it isn't a peaceful flight. How can it be? She knows gravity will drag her down inevitably, and that inertia will halt her arc through the office with a hard object soon enough. She isn't disappointed as her head slams harshly against the adjacent wall with a sickening crack. Dazedly, she thinks that her mild concussion is most certainly severe now. But she can't dwell upon that thought for any longer as Gin rounds his desk to sit placidly on his swiveling chair. His fingers steeple together in a scornful mockery of dignity and nobility, eyes calmly assessing her. The moment lasts mere seconds and then he's withdrawing a switchblade from his desk drawer, the ominous _snick snick_ echoing in the all too quiet room. "Ya coulda been a good girl, stayed at home. Only bad girls go out at night, but you're a bad girl now, ain't ya? Ya snuck out and ya stayed out. Ya didn't think you'd be able ta break the rules without payin' a price, didja?"

She doesn't know what possesses her to speak. She should know better than that, after all, talking back to Gin only makes the situation worse. But her mouth is open before she can close it and the words are being said before she can take them all back. "You've never followed the rules," she murmurs tiredly, her head sliding down the wall. The room is spinning and she's aware of the wet liquid tracing her head's descent on the otherwise white wall. It's an abstract art, she smiles morbidly at the thought. Abstract like her entire life has been.

She's startled out of her reverie as Gin stops to crouch in front of her, eyes opening and narrowing in anger. "You know who loves you the most in this world, Rukia?" She doesn't notice that he's drop the chan from her name, can't notice as the ceiling spins and spins and spins around her, like some macabre waltz. _Snick_, the blade opens in his hand and she can't bring herself to crawl away from him. "Me," he whispers, leaning into her. "I love you more than anyone else in this world." She has a feeling that these are words someone once said to him, words that ripped him apart as they rip her apart now. She has a feeling that this is just his way of getting back at the reality they both live in. "Now hold out your arms."

She does as she's told, mumbling inane words as she extends her pale arms side by side in front of her. The only warning she has before the blade descends, cutting deep and jagged into skin and tissue and muscle, is his last statement to her. "I'm lying to you, Rukia. No one loves you. Not I, not Renji, certainly not anyone out there. No one loves you because you are _damaged_. You are mine and you are _broken_." Her screams swallow up the last of his sentences, ripping her vocal chords as the switchblade turns left and right, carving a message only he can see in the sea of blood.

When he finishes, she's barely clinging to consciousness, and his fingers dig into her new marks as he drags her down the length of the hallway. Just before she gives up into the darkness, she hears her whispered question echoing in the empty corridor. "What…what did you w-write?"

"Freak."

* * *

"Hand her over," Ichigo's voice is curt as he gestures for the limp girl cradled in Renji's arms.

"Why should I? I don't even know you." The redhead shoots back, careful not to take out his anger and frustration on the unconscious figure resting in his hold. "For all I know, you could be some creepy stalker. Forget it, carrot-top. You're not wanted here and it's not as if you can help her anyways."

"And you can? You guys barely have enough bandages to go around and you think that's going to be able to fix her?" Amber eyes flash in annoyance as Ichigo proceeds to direct his attention to the rest of the people gathered in the room. Obviously, the idiot isn't willing to negotiate. He can only hope that everyone else will have enough brains to figure out that here is not the best place for the violet-eyed girl. "Everyone here obviously cares about her. And if you guys really cared, you'd let me take her back to my employer. She'll be in good hands. I swear."

The bald man in the shadows shifts and moves into the light, a customary frown on his features. "If you're lying, I'll hunt you down."

"Ikkaku, he's only trying to help." A feminine-looking male pipes up, hands attempting to placate his friend. "But really, who is your employer? And what is your name? We can't trust you if you won't even give us an identity." A logical voice, Ichigo notices, and thanks the Gods above that someone here at least is willing to give him a chance.

"Kurosaki Ichigo. I work for Kuchiki Byakuya." He doesn't offer any more information, and he doesn't need to, as understanding dawns on everyone's faces. "Now hand her over."

Renji does as he's told, shock rendering him numb as he transfers Rukia over to Ichigo's gentle embrace. "Will she ever come back?" It's a selfish question, the pickpocket knows. Rukia isn't safe here and she never will be, but he wants her to stay, wants her to always be by his side. Selfish. It's more important for her to survive than for him to cling to her presence as a desert would cling to rain. He lets her go, and wonders why it hurts so much.

"I don't know," Ichigo replies before turning on his heel and leaving the rest of the room to sit in stunned silence. All of a sudden, it seems strangely empty without the petite girl running around kicking Renji in the face or telling Shuuhei to stop making fun of her height. Even Kira, somber and morose Kira, seems disturbed at the eerie quiet blanketing the atmosphere.

"It's a lot less beautiful here without her." Yumichika murmurs, and for once, everyone agrees.

_-Will make her hope once again-_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the long wait, everyone. But I had a million other things to update and this chapter wasn't supposed to be posted (or done, for that matter) for another week or two. But my muse decided to give me a rather violent kick to the head and I managed to get this done, despite the fact that the chapter was erased the first time around. Thanks to everyone who left a review for me; this chapter is for you guys. I hope it lives up to your expectations and will continue to do so. Once again, please drop a kind comment or two if you have the time to do so. It's always really inspiring when I come back after a long day at school and read what you guys have taken the time to write.

**Summary and Preview of Chapter Four**

Byakuya isn't the type of man to wear frivolous accessories, which is why so many people are surprised to find a gold-encrusted ring on the ring finger of his right hand. It represents his Kuchiki heritage, a line descended from the old emperors of Japan, and gleams with wealth and power. Few people (if any at all) really know that he despises wearing the accessory. Even fewer know that the dislike stems from the fact that it is a useless object and serves no purpose other than to flaunt his title and his fortune.

But as his right hand catches the despicable man known as Gin in the jaw in a powerful right hook, he can't help but think that the ring may serve a purpose after all: breaking the sadist's nose.

**Up Next:** Byakuya tracks down the infamous Ichimaru, making sure to leave a couple broken bones and plenty of bruises in his wake. Rukia, blissfully unaware and still healing, dreams of a wish long forgotten and a promise to never stop hoping.


End file.
